


tongue'll taste of gin and malicious intent.

by sp201120122013



Series: Dangerverse [5]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp201120122013/pseuds/sp201120122013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post-show. mad gear isn't what poison expected.</p><p>(originally posted 2012)</p>
            </blockquote>





	tongue'll taste of gin and malicious intent.

Before the bombs, this place was a barn. Yeah, pretty boring, pretty sterile. Must've belonged to a real old coot, some real old wife. I bet they were real good Christians. I bet they cared a whole lot about virtue, prayed every morning before they went out to feed the chickens. I bet they swept the floors real tidy, kissed every cow on the nose before sitting down to a real healthy lunch. A wholesome, perfect day.

I can feel ten strangers riding my ass, my bones getting thrown all over, everyone knocking for a feel, some people elbow deep in each other's pants. It was hot, really fucking hot, and everyone was so sweaty and flustered all over. Eighty percent of everyone here was wasted, blown out on chems, high out of their fucking minds and skating into Sunday on a Wednesday night. Here's your fucking barn now. The eaves creak all up overhead, and I swear I can still smell the stink of the cows. Or maybe it's just this douchebag in front of me. But I wasn't paying any attention to a guy like that.

My eyes were set on a different "him". Mads. Mads, Mads, Mads. The coolest fucking asshole in town.

He hung on the mic stand like flesh sliding off a decomposing corpse, fluid and clingy, his hips barely held in those goddamn leather pants. They were melted, they were sealed to his skin with gluey sweat, his teal hair flashing orange, purple in the blinking lights. I could see his package, god, see it screaming to get out of those pants, and then his top half. Scrawny like everyone else out here, covered in sweat, covered in flaky paint and dusty glitter. Makeup was for the zerozoners, out here we just smeared it. I looked up at him, wanting to lick off all of those sweat beads, feeling myself getting hot from more than just the collective friction, more than the stims in my system and the lingering daytime heat. He looked down at me, grimy, sweaty little red mop. And he winked. He flashed me those white teeth, those white eyelids, all that makeup and all that dilation making his eyes light up like the moon in the goddamn sky. He was batting lashes at me, me, and I just fucking stared at him.

I gawked and dawdled and then he snapped over that barrier, all bare chest and long long legs and he was kissing me, he was all over me and there he was, tongue sliding into my mouth and the other assholes kept slamming on their reconstructed instruments, all bass and keyboard and bang bang, drums going through all of my own eardrums and I couldn't notice anything but him, anything but him in three seconds and he was gone, three seconds and the crowd was screaming at him and pawing at me, and get off. This was mine, and I touched my fingertips to my mouth to kiss them with his leftovers, swallowing fast to catch all of his spit. It was hot and sour, and I didn't hear what he was screaming over the microphone. Their last song, coming up? Something to that nature? Boys and girls, boys and girls, he always yells for all of the boys and all the girls and hey Mads, lemme be your boy, huh?

I lurch myself closer to the stage, practically clinging to a spotlight. I shouldn't be this wimpy, shouldn't be such a little embarrassment, but I wanted him to look down here again. Sure, a guy like that can throw out kisses like nothing, but couldn't he at least roll those hips in my direction again? There were a ton of girls screeching in my ear, hollering at my sides, but he wasn't after them. He wasn't even on this side, he was manning the right of the crowd and yelling out those beautiful, nasty little scrapes of vocal chords that some people called his songs. It was the melody of my goddamn outdated prepubescent heart, it was the cassette tape that my brother was always trying to smash in half. But I kept it close. And here he was, he was coming all close again and that was the last line, the last fuck you, and fuck me, god won't you fuck me, and he threw his skinny arms up over his head and everyone went fucking nuts. He was posed like a goddamn Messiah, and I would blaspheme all over that scabby forehead. Goodnight, goodnight, he yelled, and I guess I'd just have to wait until next week to see that sweet, sweet minty tinted methhead again.

\---

Except no. No, he was leaning down in my face, everyone else was clawing for him but he shoved his nose in my ear, and he was breathing down my neck all alone and whispering things about backstage, the back of the barn, things about the cellar in back where everyone would be and didn't I want to meet the whole band? Didn't I want to see them all, get to know em, maybe hang out? Maybe get a little close? And I just mouthed the yeahs, yeahs, and then his hand was off my head and he was gone away again. I slumped against the stageboard I had been clinging to, all the other tapeworms in this hot intestinal shelter slithering out into the dark, slithering into fucks and drugs and I'd be talking to him, Mads of all people. And the Gears, and the Missile Kid. The atomic drummer, their own missile. All of those overdressed hooligans I'd been stalking shows at for months, all these months, the only salvation on a Friday night. I remembered where I was supposed to be then, and stopped mooning and started walking.

I ducked around the soggy boards, out the back door with all of its lead paint chips, and there was their cellar. Open up the doors, and I swear I felt like I was breaking in, but it wasn't dark at all down there. No, they had lit it all up with their stageshow lights, rigged some inhuman source of electricity down here and I fell into a rainbow of stars and fluorescence, black lights bouncing off me and changing all of my fucking colors. The front area was deserted, but I could hear all their loud noise in the back. Who the hell was I to be barging in? Did I go, did they notice?

But of course the cellar door took the opportunity to bang shut, make me jump, send Mads himself sprinting out of whatever back ditch this cellar extended to. He smiled when he saw me, and it was like a whole new stage show, just him and me and here he came to kiss me, already having his hands on my neck, tugging down the zipper of my rancid jacket…and then he stopped. I opened up my eyes, squinting in the dim blues and purples that the stage lights had shifted to. Randomized, of course, but vaguely unnerving nonetheless. His smile got wider and wider, and here were his friends, he told me. Here was the rest of the band. My cheeks stained themselves, making me thankful for the dank lighting, because they were all here and I was just an awkward little shit. Compared to them, at least. But I went ahead and put on the face, the smirk, the cocky hip and the sleeves rolled up. Say the heys.

And there they were, the lunatic singer, the missile drummer, the guitarist and bassist that pushed all the cogs along and they were the gears, and I almost pissed a little at the cohesion that stood before me. They all were moving closer around me, and that cohesion engulfed me like I was a crab in a shell. They all wanted in my face, they all wanted to see those sweet eyes Mads had told them about. Did I know that he talked about me after every show? Did I know that he thought I was the cutest cinnamon roll this side of the east dunes? I smiled, getting sweaty with all of them around me. All of them but Mads. And I jerked around, looking for him as my heart turned on all of its flutters, and there he was smiling back at me. Leering at me and wait, why was he….

My face hit the old, moldy dirt hard, and his stupid tall boot was grinding on my back now, blotting out the detailing of my jacket and imprinting filthy details of its own. No. No, shit. He wasn't lit up in love. No, that was a chemstink around his irises. The fucking glow. Shit shit shit, I was stupid. I tried to get up, but he just stomped on me again, knocking out a little air. I scrabbled around for a knife, for anything I might've packed on me, but I always went to shows unloaded. Fuck, fuck me. No. I shouldn't be making those wishes. He let off of me, and I rolled over, trying to scrabble up to my feet, but then fingers wrenched through my hair, grabbed my back collar, and these were the Gears. Those fucking finger strong twins, always so silent. Right now wasn't an exception. Mads looked down at me, breathing heavy in that druggy pattern, and there went his belt and there were his pants going down, just a little bit, and there was the rest of him I had wanted to see so bad earlier.

"Get his jacket."

And I cried at that. I cried out in protest when they wrenched it off my arms, pinned them back again and threw the leather heap at my feet on the floor. All black and patched, the first thing I got after my city stitches. And I made it my own, and it was covered in my hopes, my markings and my colors. Yellow splashing on black and blue dots, only a few stripes of color to keep the gaudy away. It was mine. Everyone knew me by it. There he goes, they could say, and in only a scrubby t-shirt no one would know me, and I was already getting cold and shaky without it. I jerked and thrashed against the grip I was in, but it didn't work. Of course it wouldn't fucking work, and he put his hand on my face and I was breathing so, so heavy. Mouthbreathing, even, so he took it as a prime opportunity to bust past my moat of teeth and storm right into my oral castle. I choked, and I felt all the whimpers hurry up inside me and try and push out, but all I got was scrapes and jerks and gags falling out of my face. They got tighter behind me, and I wrenched my eyes shut, not wanting to see my idiocy reflected in the sheen of the sweat. Mom always told me not to follow those fucking rock stars. Just because she's dead and cleaned out doesn't mean she wasn't right.

I feel more flesh pushing against the side of one of my swollen cheeks, and I can smell an awful, hot stink. I open up, and Missile has his fucking cock out. This big beef of hair and sweat, and I don't know why they call him Kid. All I know is, he'd be the one to smash me up if I tried to run. And Mads slams into my mouth at all the wrong rhythms as the Kid bonks his hand into my face, and his hands are all knotted up in my hair, keeping me tied and weak and pained as one of the Gears lets go on me, the other pinning me fine enough all by himself, and he's so fucking tall, and he goes for the fondle fest as well. The sick little groans he's letting out are the only thing I've ever heard him fucking say, and the rough spatches on my throat burn as the first wave of Mad's cum slides down my pipes, as he pulls out in ecstasy and lets the rest drip down on my jacket.

"No, no no no!" I choke out, coughing on the semen loog stuck in my throat. I swallow hard, and then my face is meeting that yellow and black again, now stained with white.

"Shut it, twinkie." The Kid heaves, easing himself over my face and groaning, all the elegance of a hippopotamus as my face gets splattered with him, his smelling worse than Mads tasted, an obvious difference in heaviness of drug dose. I could feel my face tingling from leftover acid that was still pumping through this guy's body. No burns, of course, just a sting. Be safe as long as I didn't open my eyes. And then he was on my back, pinning me down, and Mads was standing and watching and I could hear those twins shuffling, hear them on me left and right, and here come more waves of the junk. They were silent the whole time, one of them buckling to their knees with effort? Ecstasy? But no, they shot in silence, soaking my hair in slime, and I wish I could cover my face with my hands instead of their seven minutes in heaven. Four sick druggies on a moron. And I wasn't even blessed with the dignity to fucking see, couldn't taste anything but the spunk I kept trying to spit out of my mouth, and my cheeks ground slick against the slippery leather beneath me and oh, oh no no, not my jacket. Not in all of this.

The Kid stood off of me, and I just lay there. I hadn't gotten fucked that hard, it was just a blowjob. I just couldn't see, I just had the autograph of everyone in the fucking band smeared all across my face. I just wanted to open my eyes. I didn't want to open my eyes. I had to pick up my jacket. I didn't want to touch that cloth and see it destroyed. I heard some footsteps stumble out of the room, some groans and mutters for more chemise, more booze. They had their own agendas to attend to, a new buzz to accumulate. I pushed myself up, eyes squeezed tight and everything awful dripping from my hair down my face, from my face down my neck. I tugged my shirt off of me, smashed my ugly dirty face into it. And here were all the lights again, switched onto bright yellows and pinks. The muffled yellows still tried to sting their way through the creamy glaze that covered all that pretty paint, all those patches I sewed on all by my fucking self. It was soaking. It was foul. It was fucking foul. I wiped it off as best as I could, but it still fucking stunk. It was still going to stain, tinted with bleach from druggy semen. Who the hell knew what was in their consumption, but I could already see the white spots. Or maybe that was just me going blind.

I stood up, letting the rag I used to call a shirt fall down and splatter to the ground. I shrugged my jacket back on me. It was okay on the inside. It was okay when I zipped it up, okay in the dark where no one could see the stains of this humiliation. I walked out the way I came, and walked through the barn, stepping over all the old invisible manure, dragging my feet through expired chicken feed, broken glass and half chewed pills. I was getting the hell out of here, time to start walking home in the dark. Too late to hitch a fucking ride.

I popped my collar for the last time. I wouldn't be wearing this dead cow on my shoulders anymore.


End file.
